


Photo Shoot

by Merayi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Photographer, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Evil Plans, Inspired by Photography, POV First Person, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, Photo Shoots, Photography, Secret Identity, Secrets, Vanity Fair - Freeform, Writing Exercise, magazine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 13:49:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17468762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merayi/pseuds/Merayi
Summary: Hux and Phasma are asked to do a photo shoot for the TriNebulon News. However, they don't know that their photographer's assistant is a Rebel Spy.





	Photo Shoot

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the reason I haven't posted anything lately is that I did a very intensive two-month writing course, and all my energy had to go into that. But, one of the exercises we did was "Three Points of View". We had to find a photograph from a magazine, newspaper or book that includes at least two people and write three short paragraphs describing the scene: one from the point of view of a person in the photo, one from the point of view of a second person in the photo, and one from a third person not in the picture. Because I am an irredeemable human being, I chose the Vanity Fair Magazine Star Wars cover of Hux, Kylo, and Phasma. The only constraint was that, if I was going to turn my exercise into fan fic, I couldn't mention any names and it could only be a page long. Don't judge me!

 

  **FIRST PERSON**

What stupid, sniveling fool decided that this was a good idea? They should be fired immediately. I would be happy to do it myself, since I cannot seem to trust any of my subordinates to be able to carry out the simplest tasks without constant supervision.

I feel like a ten-a-penny pin-up girl, paraded in front of a dark grey background for some nonsense tabloid, told “stand here”, “angle your shoulders this way”, “bring your chin down”. As though any mere mortal can give me orders! Do they not know who they are speaking to?

Any lesser man would be starting to crumble below these unnecessarily glaring stage lights. My eyes are beginning to sting under the heat of them, but I will not allow myself to blink. Even if I must suffer this indignity, I will not give these people the satisfaction of seeing me wilt. Gaze direct, chin up, shoulders back, spine straight, hips tucked, knees loose, feet apart. This stance is locked in the deepest level of my subconscious. Never show weakness, especially not in front of enemies.

Speaking of weakness, I am surprised the beastly man-child they have positioned beside me hasn’t broken anything yet. However, I am not surprised that the Captain is conducting herself well. She may be just a woman, but she knows true military excellence.

We have been in this studio for exactly two hours and fifty-three minutes before the pathetic girl behind the camera says we are done. Her assistant mentions that she will have the photographs to the TriNeb within a month. That brings me up short. I stare at her.

The TriNebulon News is no pitiful tabloid site. It is the main cog in the propaganda machine, legally required to be broadcast to almost every corner of the territories. Now, there will not be a being out there who does not know the face of the man who singlehandedly rules the Empire!

 

**SECOND PERSON**

You grit your teeth and will them to stop chattering. How in the nine hells do you get yourself into these situations? You are an assistant’s assistant; you are not ranked high enough to be here. That was the whole point! You have been trying to keep under the radar.

It would almost make a good comedy skit. You can imagine the premise: SPY ENDS UP TAKING PUBLICITY PHOTOS OF THE COMPANY SHE’S SPYING ON’S BOSS’S BOSS’S BOSSES.

No, you can’t think that. Trying not to wince outwardly, you focus on your JOB (well, the photography one, not the spying one). You have been told that the person in the middle can read minds. If you had an iota less self-control, you would be glancing at him every few seconds, just to make sure he hasn’t been scanning your brain without you knowing. Not that you know how you could tell if he has.

The room is too hot and stuffy and miserable. It feels like the sweat soaking through your shirt is spelling out “guilty”. There are enough people here that could see it. You feel cramped and smothered.

Finally, a millennium later, your boss sets her camera on her hip, the sign that you are done. Good. You want to get out of here. Quickly, you promise to get the photos off to the TriNeb within the month. You hope your voice is more a chirp and less a squeak.

The red-haired man stares at you, the intensity of his gaze pinning you to the spot like a flewt on a board. He is as cool as a dead star, looming and frightening. Has the intelligence been wrong this whole time? Is HE the one with telepathy? Does he know? Has he guessed?

He asks you again where you are sending the pictures. You answer, unsure of yourself.

He walks off, grinning triumphantly, rubbing his thin hands together, looking every bit the supervillain he is. You just don’t understand these evil geniuses.

 

**THIRD PERSON**

The Captain stands square, pike in hand. She does not move. She has been ordered to stand here, and so she will stand here. She has been ordered to obey the head photographer, so she will obey the head photographer. She will not question. She will not think.

She will not ask why she has been ordered to disobey the first order she was ever given as a cadet: do not remove your helmet, no matter what. She will not wonder what advantage there may be in erasing the image of a faceless, uniform military force. She will not worry about displaying her bare face to the Empire. She will not resent being fussed over by a hoarde of civilians.

The Captain will be silent. She will tolerate the bright lights and the powder make-up and the irritating attendants and the even more irritating men to her left.

The photographer orders her to angle her shoulders to the right and face the camera. She obeys.


End file.
